


Wherever Whatever I Was Before

by RedheadAmongWolves



Category: Perry Mason (TV 2020)
Genre: Because I needed it, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Honestly this is just a gentle getting together fic, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, but barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:36:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves
Summary: How there could be anyone who has met Perry Mason and didn’t immediately want to feed him a hot meal and wrap him up in a blanket escapes Hamilton entirely. He’s comforted Della shares the sentiment. The man’s infuriating, but he’s theirs. His.
Relationships: Hamilton Burger/Perry Mason
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	Wherever Whatever I Was Before

Hamilton doesn’t pretend to be an honest man. He tries to be, or aspires to be, but given who he is and the life he leads, and how those two things are inherently at war with one another, he’s not sure he can claim to be successful. But as any lawyer  _ not _ working out of a shoebox will tell you, the law isn’t always about upholding honesty. Hamilton did not become the deputy district attorney without cracking a few eggs, or a few skulls. 

But Perry Mason? Perry Mason is an honest man. Hell, he might even be a good one. 

That first night, they stay at the diner until two in the morning, until Hamilton’s back starts to ache and the only other patrons are bums looking for a warm place to hunker for the night, and the waitress keeps giving them an increasingly irate stink eye. They finally call it quits when she refills their mugs with cold coffee and cold tea, no lemon in sight, and Hamilton steals Perry’s pen and scrawls his number on his notepad, above the chicken scratch of legalese, because presumably Perry can read his own writing, but Hamilton’s not going to take that chance. 

Hamilton fishes a few bills out of his wallet, magnanimously deciding to give the waitress a generous tip despite the cold drinks, and settles his hat back on his head. Perry’s unmoving, blinking blearily down at the notepad, so Hamilton taps the back of his hand, and he near jumps out of his skin.

“Sleep. A full eight hours, if you please, and call me when you wake. We have a truly staggering amount of work still to do. And shave. Lawyers don’t have a five o’clock shadow,” Hamilton tells him, not unkindly, but probably harsher than is necessary.

If it had been anyone but Della asking him this favor, Hamilton would have laughed in their faces. When she tells him it’s for the Dodson case, he’s more inclined, not entirely because he feels sorry for the family, though he does, truly, but mostly because taking the DA down a couple pegs would be a personal delight. Hamilton has aspirations, and he’s not repentant to do what he needs to do to achieve them. After all, why else would a man go to the trouble of all but memorizing the bar exam, if he weren’t prepared to use that information in a less than legal manner in the future? 

Then he’d slid into the booth and found a handsome, if a little rugged, man staring back at him, and, well. Like he said. He doesn’t pretend to be an honest man.

Now, Perry sighs dejectedly down at his notepad, and Hamilton finds himself hit with the bizarre desire to offer comfort, so he taps the back of Perry’s hand again until the man squints up at him.

“But,” Hamilton says. “We’re off to a good start.” 

Perry scowls, but, like the coffee, there’s no real heat in it. 

Perry calls Hamilton the next afternoon, and they agree to meet at Perry’s place, rather than venture out into the city again, lest someone start noticing a connection between the DDA and the Dodsons’ former PI. Perry gives him the address, and he finds the place easily enough, once he starts following signs to the airport. 

Hamilton’s not a city boy, though he does his best to convince people he is. In actuality, he grew up near the beach, but the not-so-nice section, where the beach was more litter and shattered glass than sand. He moved to the city first chance he got, at barely sixteen, not sure what he wanted to be but certain it was anything that wouldn’t lead him back to the bungalow he’d grown up in, shoulder-to-shoulder with six siblings and both sets of grandparents. 

A farm, either way, he’s not used to. Even a derelict farm. He’s pretty sure he can hear a cow somewhere as he knocks on the front door, but it might be a ghost cow, for all he knows. 

Perry opens the door and, well. Hamilton does his best not to drag his eyes up the man’s body. He hadn’t seen the full package that is Perry Mason when they’d been hunched in a greasy spoon booth. The man’s in a slacks and a white t-shirt that’s a little stained at the collar, but he’s clean-shaven, which just makes his curls look even more wild, but also the dark circles under his eyes even darker, meaning he probably didn’t sleep like Hamilton told him to. The shirt shows off the muscles in his arms, and even the edge of a tattoo at his shoulder, that Hamilton is suddenly very interested to see. Hamilton had never been particularly attracted to the scruffy type before, but he might be willing to change his tastes. 

He’ll likely have to, since Perry doesn’t seem the kind of guy to stock tea. 

But when Perry ushers him inside, to an unsurprisingly messy house far too large for one man, he leads him to the kitchen, where there’s a kettle and a lemon set waiting on the counter. He switches on the stove and the coffee pot as Hamilton surveys the overflowing contents of the built-in bookshelves. Perhaps Perry is smarter than he initially gave the man credit for. 

Perry clears his throat and Hamilton turns around, giving his best lazy smile that, to his private delight, brings a rosy dust to Perry’s cheeks. 

“Shall we get started?”

After Perry passes the bar, they don’t see much of each other for a while, which after two weeks of intense study sessions, is a little jarring. But they get caught up in their own dramas. If Hamilton has any correspondence to deliver, he meets with Della, and in return she gives him updates on the case and Perry’s performance. It sounds like he’s doing a decent job, though Hamilton is keen to see him in action for himself, which is why when Della asks him to come help them prep for their cross-examination of Ennis, he’s quick to accept. 

He finds himself back on the front step of Perry’s house, and Perry opens the door again, and Hamilton’s stomach gives a little flip again. 

Perry cleans up _ very _ nicely.

The living room, which is even messier than the last time Hamilton was here, has been transformed into a war room, the walls papered with photographs and the tables blanketed in papers and filing boxes stacked a mile high. Della’s typing away, and there’s a dark-skinned man sitting stiffly on one of the hardback chairs in their mock-courtroom, dressed in a polo that’s been pressed to within an inch of its life. He stands when Hamilton and Perry enter the room, but Perry’s zeroed back in on Della and brushes past him, already onto the next thought, leaving Hamilton and the man standing just shy of the doorway, staring at each other. 

They make their own introductions, once it’s clear no one else is going to. 

“Paul Drake,” the man replies when Hamilton gives his name. He has a firm, respectable handshake, the kind Hamilton’s father tried and failed to teach him. 

“Della or Perry?” Hamilton asks, and the man’s smart, he gets what he’s asking.

“Perry. Found me on my beat, wouldn’t leave me alone. Those kicked-puppy eyes talked my conscience around.”

An officer? “Della for me. She’s an old friend, whom I find I can’t say no to. Usually I’m perfectly content ignoring my conscience.” He casts a fond look over to the woman, who is now bent over a sheaf of papers with Perry, arguing something. “And now I find I can hardly say no to Perry, either.” He turns back, sees that knowing glint in Drake’s perceptive eye, but none of the familiar malice or repulsion that usually follows. Another good man, it seems. Before a month ago Hamilton couldn’t find a single one, and now it seems they’re collecting like flies. “He grows on you.”

Drake nods solemnly. “Like a fungus.” 

He doesn’t see Perry again until the third night of jury deliberation. Or, rather, he’s seen Perry, but Perry hasn’t seen him. Hamilton obviously wasn’t going to miss Emily Dodson taking the stand, or Perry’s final remarks, but he’s also got a reputation to uphold until he’s properly secured the DA position, so he sticks to the back of the courtroom to watch, far from the prying eyes of the press’ flashbulbs. 

He has to admit, Perry does well. The man is a natural. Some lawyers treat the courtroom like the theatre, all dramatic flourishes of the hand and finding their marks and best angles as they deliver their most eloquent words. When Perry speaks, though, it’s almost as though you’re transported: you’re not in a courtroom anymore, but with an old friend, in his living room or a diner as he explains the world over coffee. Perry’s passion and sincerity make him come alive until he’s positively glowing, the light source all eyes are fixed on as he reaches into his own chest and hands his bleeding heart to the jury. 

It’s impossible not to love him, just a little. 

The first day of deliberation Hamilton leaves before the gavel’s even hit. The second day he doesn’t show up, because he knows this case is going to have a damn long deliberation. The third day, though, he goes, and finds not Perry but Della in the courtroom-cum-waiting-room, reading a book, her feet propped up on the row before her. 

She arches her eyebrow as he approaches. It’s like one glance and she knows he’s not there for her. 

“He’s outside. His leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, it was distracting,” she tells him before he even asks. “Like a little kid.”

How there could be anyone who has met Perry Mason and didn’t immediately want to feed him a hot meal and wrap him up in a blanket escapes Hamilton entirely. He’s comforted Della shares the sentiment. The man’s infuriating, but he’s theirs.

The thought almost makes his breath hitch, if he hadn’t long-mastered the skill of suppressing his more emotional reactions. He’s known for a while his thoughts regarding Perry are far too affectionate for how brief they’ve known each other, but he hadn’t been so bold as to use the possessive. Theirs. _ His. _

Della’s watching him have this tiny mental short-circuit with an exasperated smile on her face. 

“What do you think?” he asks her, and his voice only sounds a bit small. 

She turns back to her book with a roll of her eyes, but still pitches her voice low so they’re not overheard. “I think you’re both idiots, and you deserve each other.” 

It’s as much of a blessing he’s going to get, so he turns and sets off to find Perry Mason.

It’s trickier than he expected, but he finally stumbles upon the man on an upstairs balcony, half-tucked behind a bust of Aristotle. There’s no flask in sight, which is another tiny surprise. The man had had no conniptions regarding drinking on the job as a private investigator, or so Hamilton has heard, but he’s remained remarkably dry throughout the course of the trial. Hamilton wonders why. 

The woeful look Perry gives him almost makes him wish he had a flask of his own to offer, but Hamilton isn’t so crude as to bring one to court. 

“How long does this last?” Perry asks in lieu of a greeting. His voice is a little hoarse. 

“My longest jury was out for four days, and there were no murdered babies involved.”

Perry groans, and thunks his head back against the marble wall. Hamilton gives a cursory glance around them, but they’re well out of the flow of foot traffic, so he lowers himself to the ground across from Perry, stretching his legs in front of him until they’re near overlapping with Perry’s and earning a raised eyebrow for his efforts.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,” Perry says, faux-casual. He picks at a thread on his slightly rumpled waistcoat. Their last interaction lingers unspoken between them. 

Hamilton shrugs. “I’ve been around. Figured you could use a distraction right about now, however. Day three is usually when the defense starts to go a bit crazy.”

“I think my descent into insanity was already well underway before today,” Perry replies, with a humorless huff. 

“How are you holding up, truly?” Hamilton asks, choosing to dive directly to the honesty portion of their conversation, and Perry doesn’t even flinch. Hamilton watches as he scrubs a hand down his face. 

“Honestly? Fucking tired. I want to win, for Emily, obviously, but—” he trails off.

“You want a full night’s sleep and a meal that doesn’t taste like the paper bag it came in?” Hamilton finishes for him. “Welcome to being a lawyer, kid.” He knows for sure Perry’s exhausted when he doesn’t bite back for Hamilton calling him ‘kid.’ “What’s worse, it seems you’re a good lawyer, too.” 

Perry’s eyes sharpen on his, in that single-focus way he’s got that makes the whole rest of the world fade away. Hamilton continues, clinging to that stare like it’s a lifeline. “I should’ve warned you before you took the bar. It’s never a good idea to be a good lawyer.” 

It’s a long moment before either of them look away. They sit in silence, listening to the murmurs of the crowd down below, the distant scribbling of pens as reporters try to scrounge up a story from the radio silence. 

When Perry does speak, it’s so quiet Hamilton almost doesn’t catch it. 

“Yeah, well. Learned from the best,” Perry says. Hamilton’s heart does a tap dance in his chest.

They sit there until the sun fades to orange outside the windows, and they announce down below the jury’s going home for the night. Then they go down to find Della and drag her with them to the corner diner for coffee. If Hamilton’s shoe nudges the toe of Perry’s beneath the table, neither of them say a word, and neither of them move. 

After the verdict, Hamilton, heedless of the cameras, shoves his way to the front of the courtroom, navigating pressmen trying to rush out like trout swimming upstream. He can see Perry through the crowd, and Perry’s unbridled grin, and he follows it like a beacon, watching as hugs are exchanged and tears flow and flashbulbs pop. Hamilton can hardly hear over the clamor, but all he can think is,  _ he did it.  _ The son of a bitch really did it. 

Perry spots him before Hamilton’s reached the railing, and if it’s possible, his grin gets even brighter. He skirts around the desk and comes to meet him, but once they get there, the wood a barrier between their legs, neither of them really know what to do. They falter between a hug and a handshake before Hamilton reaches up and grasps Perry’s bicep, squeezing once, tight. 

“Congratulations,” he says, sincere as he can. 

“The battle’s not over yet,” Perry shakes his head, but he can’t shake his smile. “But thanks. Come to Della’s tonight to celebrate?”

He’s right, there’s still so much to be done, but that’s for another day. Hamilton nods. “Of course.” And then Perry’s being swept away in the waves, and Hamilton finds himself with an armful of Della, kissing her on the cheek before he makes his excuses and slips away, his fingers still buzzing from where they’d wrapped around Perry’s arm. 

He arrives when the party’s already in full swing. Well, he says party. A child’s still dead, and its not-completely exonerated mother is in the room, so despite Hazel’s dancing and the landlady’s cake, there’s a bit of a damper over the evening. Hamilton nods to Strickland, whom Hamilton has business with in the morning, as the man steps out for some air, Perry at his tail, and then Hamilton watches through the front window as Strickland walks away, leaving Perry alone. 

Hamilton waits a moment to let Perry compose himself before he joins him on the porch, shutting the door gently behind him.

Perry gives him a withering look when he spots him, which Hamilton probably deserves for the Strickland business, but he doesn’t let it chase him off, and it doesn’t sit long on Perry’s face regardless. 

Perry relents with a sigh. “Is the adrenaline crash gonna be something I get used to, too?”

Hamilton stands close enough that their shoulders brush, testing the waters, but again, Perry doesn’t shift away, and Hamilton feels his own tension ease from his body. “Unfortunately, no,” he answers truthfully. “I’d even hazard to say it gets worse, just because you hope it gets better.”

“Why do we even bother, then?” Perry grumbles. “What about this is worth it? We didn’t even win.” 

“You saved a woman’s life,” Hamilton reminds him. “That counts as a win in my book.” He gives the man a gentle nudge. “And you changed yours.”

Perry barks a strangled laugh, but Hamilton doesn’t let him cheapen the moment. God, he never used to let himself be this big of a sap, but that  _ something _ about Perry has him rewriting all sorts of his rules. “I mean it,” he tells him. “Look at all you have now.” 

Perry follows his eyes to the window, to Della and their friends gathered in the rosy glow of the house, the music drifting faintly to them through the walls. And then he turns those eyes on Hamilton, and Hamilton feels his mouth go dry. 

“You wanna get out of here?” Perry asks, ever so quietly, and Hamilton is nodding before he even finishes the question. 

Perry, he discovers, has sold the farm, so Hamilton drives them back to his apartment, realizing as he unlocks the door that this is the first time Perry’s been here. He’s only a little self-conscious as he welcomes Perry inside, letting the man step around to wander. It’s a small place, but it’s entirely Hamilton’s, and anyone he ever brings here knows the truth about him, so there’s no facade like there is in his office. The walls, which Hamilton painted red one summer with an ex-flame, are absolutely covered in art, frames and pinned postcards, with bookshelves between. Any free table space has been filled by piles of books, most with bookmarks still hanging out of the much-loved pages like panting tongues. Hamilton takes Perry’s jacket and hat, setting them on the coat rack with his own before gesturing for Perry to wander deeper.

“Records are by the fireplace, pick whatever,” he tells him, before moving to the kitchen to fetch a couple glasses. His pulse stutters a rapid-fire tempo in his wrists, but he wills his hands not to shake as he grabs the whiskey and reenters the room. Perry’s put a jazz record on the Victrola. 

The man smirks when he spots the decanter. “What, no tea?”

“Figured tonight called for something a little stronger,” Hamilton retorts. He pours and hands Perry his glass, watches as he takes a sip. His bottom lip shines wetly in the low lamplight, and Hamilton can’t help but track the swipe of the man’s tongue as it darts to collect the stray liquid.

When Hamilton drags his eyes back up to Perry’s, the man is staring at him. Hamilton freezes. They’ve danced around this, but that’s nothing compared to actually being here, alone, together. 

He watches as Perry sets his glass down on an end table not completely occupied by books, and doesn’t resist as Perry reaches out and takes Hamilton’s glass to join its partner. And then Perry is taking a step closer.

Hamilton talks a smart game, but caught in Perry’s gaze, he finds himself  _ nervous, _ his whole body thrumming like the plucked strings of a violin. “I meant what I said,” he blurts, a half-hearted effort to slow Perry’s approach. “You’re a good lawyer. You should be proud of yourself.”

Perry’s mouth quirks in an echo of a smile, but he doesn’t slow, taking another step closer. “And like I said,” he says, voice so low it makes heat coil in Hamilton’s gut. “I learned from the best.”

Hamilton doesn’t claim to be a good man, or an honest one, or a selfless one, or half the man that Perry Mason is. But for Perry Mason, he’ll try his damned best. 

They step forward at the same time and meet in the middle, and Perry’s mouth finds his, and it’s just as hot and soft and plush as Hamilton had imagined it would be, and Perry’s hands drift up to his chest while Hamilton’s dig in the divots of Perry’s hips to drag him closer, until their bodies are pressed flush. Hamilton backs him up till they collide with the arm of the sofa, and he slots a thigh between Perry’s. Perry breaks the kiss to draw in a ragged breath, and Hamilton moves to press kisses down his jaw, the evening’s stubble scraping his lips. He hums against Perry’s throat as he imagines feeling that stubble elsewhere, drawing a breathy chuckle from the other man.

“I owe Della two bucks,” Perry says. “She had us pegged since the diner.”

Hamilton presses a kiss to the pulse racing in Perry’s neck, letting the man feel his smile. “To be fair, so did I.” Perry threads his fingers through the hairs at Hamilton’s nape, and Hamilton lets himself be dragged back up to meet Perry’s eyes and breathe his air. 

Perry’s blue eyes search his, so Hamilton lets everything he’s feeling and thinking pour into his own, letting Perry find his answer. Perry’s mouth curves with something like satisfaction when he does. “I’ve still got a lot to learn, it seems,” he tells Hamilton meaningfully. Hamilton doesn’t tell him he fully expects to be learning just as much himself from Perry, instead leaning in to give him a chaste kiss, that won’t stay chaste for very long. 

“Hmm. Lucky for you, I’m a good teacher.”

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i spent the entirety of this show wanting perry to kiss /everybody/. but particularly hamilton. so this happened.
> 
> title from Gold by JoJo lol. "You're making me better from wherever whatever I was before" oof ow
> 
> also it was so weird to jump from writing alexander hamilton fic to a fic about another guy named hamilton ahahaha help me i'm so tired
> 
> (don't own perry mason etc etc, disclaimers disclaimers)


End file.
